A Dull Rumour of Some Other War
by Stephen Greenwood
Summary: The calendar reads December 22, 2012. He had half-expected to wake this morning to a burning wasteland, humanity in disarray thanks to some alien beings hell bent on claiming the ruined planet as their own.


**A DULL RUMOUR OF SOME OTHER WAR  
By Stephen Greenwood**

**Rating: PG-13, R if you're particularly sensitive  
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance, Colonisation  
Spoilers: Nothing specific but set post-IWTB  
Disclaimer: Last time I checked, I didn't own them. I'm fairly sure I still don't. I don't own Wilfred Owen's 'Exposure' either - although there are no direct references, the similarities are noticeable and intentional.**

Thanks to Lily Bart for the beta and the constructive criticism contained within. All errors remaining are mine. I take full responsibility, officer.

**Summary: The calendar reads December 22, 2012. He had half-expected to wake this morning to a burning wasteland, humanity in disarray thanks to some alien beings hell bent on claiming the ruined planet as their own.**

* * *

The sun rises. Reds, oranges and yellows paint the darkness, taking extra care to erase the starry pinpricks of light from the black canvas, transforming it into a landscape admired by artists and early risers alike.

Despite the beautiful, almost ancient image, it is ultimately unremarkable. Regarded as a naturally occurring event and often ignored, it is taken for granted that a new day dawns with no external forces playing a part other than planetary orbit and axis tilt. Only if something was to go wrong would man be aware. And by then it would be too late, and no _Armageddon_ mission would make a difference. But the odds of something catastrophic happening are slim and so ignorance is bliss, at least in most cases. Few dare to dream of a time they might not open their eyes to the welcoming rays of sunshine in the early hours, so when the sun rises on a cold December day in 2012, hardly anyone bats an eye.

But this particular sunrise is noteworthy because, by all rhyme and reason, it should never have happened.

* * * * *

A woman sleeps alone in a bed meant for two. Her breathing is low and even, the rise and fall of her chest steady and relaxed. She has spent the past decade looking over her shoulder; worry etched itself on her face, becoming her unwanted yet necessary companion. It is only right that she has some time to herself, is allowed to sleep unencumbered; after all, her waking hours are filled with paranoia and nerves of steel, with observant eyes and alert instincts. In sleep, she trusts herself to let down her carefully guarded walls, to permit both her exhausted mind and body to shut down, to refresh. She knows herself well enough to be guided by her gut in moments of drowsiness, and if someone were to enter the room, she would be awake and prepared before they could say 'boo'.

Yesterday, a man lay beside her, around her, and they held each other close for what they silently feared would be the last time. December 21, 2012. Doomsday. They had listened nervously to the radio all day, waiting for the _War of the Worlds_ moment when everything would change. As night drew nearer, when the dreaded day began to fade, everything was as it should have been: no strange occurrences, no destruction of cities or felling of landmarks. Autonomously, they had prepared for bed and a restless night, certain of an extra-terrestrial interruption before daybreak.

But nothing happened.

Still she sleeps on, undeterred by her partner's absence, by the loneliness present in the mistreatment of a bed too big for her alone. In another tale, she would be abruptly woken by a blood-curdling scream or the empty echo of a gunshot, and she would scramble to her feet to rush headlong into the next Thing. There is almost always a Thing.

But nothing happens.

* * * * *

The poignant triumph of dawn begins to grow. A lone shadow stretches across the wooden porch. Although it is winter and the light hours are later in their arrival with each passing day, those first weak rays are worth getting up to watch. There is no wind, just a faint breeze every now and again that adds to the chill. He is prepared for the cold, his hands stuffed into the deep pockets on his thick coat. He is fairly certain, if she should find him, she would chide him for not wearing a hat; he has heard the lecture so many times he finds he can argue with her even in her absence.

He attempts to reign in his emotions, knowing that he cannot afford to get ahead of himself, that ultimately this means little, but even he cannot stop the elation from spreading through his body. He had half-expected to wake this morning to a burning wasteland, humanity in disarray thanks to some alien beings hell bent on claiming the ruined planet as their own. Earlier, when his eyes had sleepily blinked and finally focused, he was mildly surprised to see the room exactly as it had been left the night before. His lover lay beside him peacefully, her hand resting just above his navel. Hurrying to the window, he had seen the white expanse of immaculate snow-covered fields innocently looking back, and from that moment he had dared to hope.

Their humble abode is remote, far enough away from the winding lane that no passing car can detect a residence. The closest neighbours are a ten-minute walk away, fifteen or twenty when the snow is high enough to cover the top of his boots. He is aware of their isolation, thinking it both welcome and inconvenient. The portable radio he lugged outside earlier is plugged in and instead of static, as one may expect, the sound of a hot little jazz number flows out of the tinny speakers. So far this morning he has heard of Obama's latest plan to cut gas prices, the loss of another solider in Afghanistan, and how it is only two shopping days until Christmas.

No mention of invaders from outer space.

* * * * *

It is mid-morning when she finds him outside, his skin tinged pink from the elements. The old wooden chair cannot be comfortable but there he sits, his long legs casually sprawled in front of him. Wordlessly, he looks up and sends her a brief smile before returning his attention to the calm, blanketed landscape before them. She too takes a moment to simply be, to believe what her eyes are telling her. There is life after the end of the world.

She drops a kiss to the top of his head and his arm sneaks around her waist, pulling her onto his lap. She goes willingly, thankful for his heat and his solidness, and in a rare moment she allows herself to relax, just a little. His chin rests lightly on her shoulder. No words are exchanged as none are needed; they both require time to adjust, to accept the dawning of a new day and a new era, one which neither had expected to live to see.

Suddenly a small dot appears at the edge of the field closest to their home. It darts erratically, stopping, pausing seemingly at random, before dashing off and repeating the cycle again. They watch and imagine the snow becoming tainted by the tiny paw prints, too far away for them to see. The squirrel draws closer, either unaware of its scrutinisers or just not caring. It stays for ten or perhaps fifteen minutes before scampering off out of sight. She squeezes his hand, causing him to smile and kiss her neck. They continue to watch the fields.

But nothing happens.

* * * * *

Neither knows why the colonisation, which had sounded so concrete, so set in stone, has not taken place. The silence seems too loud. They are curious, nervous, scanning the stillness for a sign. He never had the chance to say 'I told you so', and, for once, he can let it slide. This is one time he is grateful for being wrong, one time he will happily admit it.

Their shared sense of unease abates, albeit slowly, as the minutes tick by. Will he ever stop thinking of it as borrowed time? He suspects not. He will always be waiting, trying to prepare himself for the end, or at least the battle running up to it, and until he hears of either their disinterest in Earth or their new date for invasion, he will not rest. He cannot afford to. He knows he is no Superman; the world is not his alone to save. Still, he feels as though he owes it to himself, to his partner, to his son, to step up to the plate and fight for them.

But that time is not now and he decides to take the day off to celebrate their continued existence. So they might not have balloons and streamers, but the pizza guy could deliver on Saturdays and if they want music they can always tune in to whichever frequency the radio picks up first or put a CD on the stereo. It probably won't be much of a party but as far as impromptu occasions go, this one could be worse.

And still nothing happens.

* * * * *

Tonight, when the darkness approaches once again, they will retreat inside and turn on all the lights. They will take off their heavy layers of outdoor clothing and stamp their feet, trying not to trudge mushy snow into every room of the house. A fire will be lit and they will sit on the couch, basking in its warmth, becoming drowsy and content. Their skin, frozen by the elements better than any plastic surgery, will begin to thaw and the numbness will abate, and he will be able to feel it when her hand strokes his cheek and their lips touch. He might murmur about now having to buy her a Christmas present, and if he does, she will smile and tell him she already has everything she needs.

They will savour each other, long, slow caresses across smooth skin that leave trails of fire in their wake. They will worship each other as reverently as ancient cultures worshipped their gods. It will be a celebration, and they will be thankful instead of thinking of what could and what may still be. No elegy will play tonight; no body will lay in eternal rest under frozen earth. Maybe they won't get out of bed tomorrow but it will not be because they are dead: it will be because they are more alive than ever.

For once in their busy lives, nothing happens.


End file.
